Footsteps
by Monosodium Glutemate
Summary: Tomo and his thoughts on Nakago and Soi, his wishes... mention of rape/abuse, lots of angst (mild yaoi, duh, it's got Tomo in it) REVISED!


It would be another one of those nights. Soon, Soi would be summoned to visit Nakago's private chambers, and the horrible sounds would begin. Quiet, purposeful, direct and yet humble, almost demure. Like a proud man led to the gallows.  
  
Ladylike, he thought bitterly.  
  
The soft padding of delicate shoes on carpet always rang in his mind, stabbing like cold knives in his chest. As if on a sadistic pilgrimage, the footsteps would walk past his chamber door and to the bed of the man he loved. In the small hours of the morning she would slip back into her own rooms, unnoticed. Yet another vicious cycle that would begin in a few short hours.  
  
Tomo set his headdress in its proper place, feathers hanging depressedly limp. He couldn't begrudge Soi what she shared with Nakago; she spent every night in his bed, but it was no secret between them that she had never spent the night in his arms. In a way, he counted himself almost lucky; worshiping from afar, contenting himself with striving every day to earn Nakago's trust and confidence, while Soi went through the empty motions, used not even for her body, but her skill.   
  
His room was simple, well-furnished as any room in Kutou's palace, but much of it went uncared for. The only thing he had asked for when he had come to stay was a vanity mirror; it sat across the room from his bed, so that he could turn his back on it as he slept. He didn't care for his own image, especially as the last thing he saw before he lay down for the night- it gave him nightmares. The only joy he drew from the silver surface was watching himself become Tomo, assuming the role he was born to play, as he painted every line, every color, across his face. It made his reflection bearable.  
  
Of course, every night, the makeup would have to come off, and he sat down before his mirror to take down his hair and wash away the mask. Briefly, he thought of the footsteps and closed his eyes. On these dark, still nights, he could not envy her place in Nakago's heart, but Tomo couldn't help but covet her place between his sheets. After all, that was better than nothing, wasn't it? Even if she was under orders to remove herself from Nakago's presence after the deed was done, at least she had been in his presence at all. She was good enough, skilled enough, worth enough for that, at least. Better than he could ever be, certainly.  
  
He gazed upon the reflection before him- in his eyes, a filthy wretched thing, hiding behind facepaint to cover up the rancid truth.  
  
The days of the opera troupe came back to him- the sneers, the laughs, the pain... The others pointing and jeering at him, amazed at how he, a mere nine year old, could be so skillful in taking their leader, unwashed and stinking of hot sweat and cheap liquor, full to the hilt in his throat... the helplessness as he choked, gagged, nearly retched on it, held by his short, matted hair.... the cold air on his skin, wet with sweat, blood, and worse, when no one thought to leave him anything but his own sickness for warmth... those nights, brought up as entertainment for drunken actors before the curtains opened, and left as a special treat for patrons when they closed... They proved to him early on what he was.   
  
Nothing.  
  
The illusionist lay his head down on his folded arms, miserably. He sighed, refusing to let free the tears that burned his eyes; to cry meant weakness, worthlessness. Crying was proof that the dirty, wasted child had grown into the vile, contemptible man; still defiled, still disgusting. Still weak.  
  
Not like him, Tomo thought. Nakago was beautiful. Perfect. From the frozen sky of his eyes, to the strength that needed no words in his hands, he was perfect. An image of godlike lethal beauty, of strength. The terrible things he ordered his troops to do, the violence, the cruelty; none of it mattered. Nakago was beyond that, beyond everything. Nothing could touch him. Nothing could befoul him. And that was why Tomo loved him.   
  
He smiled, thinking of that day, the blessed day that Nakago had come to the troupe, searching for Seiryuu Shichiseishi Tomo. He found nothing in his life except the plays, the stories, the characters-- the glorious performance that let him become anyone but himself, even for only a short time-- until that day. The shogun came riding on a horse, straight and tall, gleaming golden hair streaming under a winter sky dulled against the striking blue eyes.   
  
When Nakago addressed the theatre group, they had been in dress rehearsal; everything had been constructed for the performance. His presence commanded silence, and when he demanded that the one who carried a sigil on his body come before him, Chuin had wasted not a second. He walked forward, imagining himself onstage- easily enough, with his makeup and costume in place. The crowd, the men who'd thought nothing of abusing him, stared in fascination and parted like the Red Sea, and he stepped past them with his head high and as proud as his role demanded. Nakago looked down on him from his horse, his azure eyes shining under his helmet; in those few seconds, Ruo Chuin was buried alive, in a very shallow grave, under a thin layer of paint.  
  
Tomo resolved in that moment to prove his worth to the shogun, to serve willingly and to his fullest... and maybe.. just maybe....  
  
He sat up, strength restored, inspired by Nakago's perfection and the dream (futile, he knew, but a master of illusion is allowed his own fantasy) of his love, and poured a bowlful of water from the pitcher on his table.   
  
Bare seconds after he dipped the white cloth into the water, there was a knock on the door.   
  
"Tomo."  
  
It was him. The smooth, deep voice carried like waves over sand, with a tone that left no room for argument.  
  
"Hai, Nakago-sama?" Tomo stood up, almost too quickly, poised and graceful; ready to show the shogun that he would carry out any order, any desire, that he might have.   
  
The door slid open and Nakago stepped in, shutting it quietly behind him. The blue of his eyes shone under a fall of wispy blond bangs, his skin pale as a full moon against the smooth black of his bedrobe. His face was expressionless, like a marble sculpture, and that alone proved his strength. His firm voice rang out again, softly, but with the clarity of an iron bell, "Sit down. Facing me." Though slender and otherworldly in the dim candlelight, he radiated power, as if daring the world itself to deny him anything.   
  
Tomo would not. He adjusted and sat obediently in the chair, hands folded in his lap, transfixed by the man before him. "Nakago-sama, I--"  
  
"Don't speak, Tomo."   
  
Unable to reply, he simply nodded, half-terrified of whatever it was Nakago had come for. The shogun moved past him and drew the rag from the bowl of water on the table. Tomo heard the almost-musical sound of water sprinkling back into the bowl, running down the single hand that wrung the cloth, and then Nakago was in front of him again. His hand shone faintly in the semidarkness, curled around the slowly-dripping white fabric, as it rose to slide across Tomo's forehead. The illusionist flinched, reflexively jerking back as if he'd been burned.  
  
"I have never seen you without your makeup," he murmured, seemingly in response to Tomo's wide-eyed, unspoken question. There was no emotion in his voice, not even a mild curiosity; but the shine of his eyes was different. Brighter, in a way, but somehow darker. Passionate.   
  
Irresistible.  
  
Tomo nodded, faintly shaking, as Nakago began to slowly wash away the paint, exposing skin almost as white as the mask. First his forehead; he could feel and see the red circle between his eyes melt away, like blood, as it dripped, diluted, down the bridge of his nose. Next, his eyes and over his cheekbones; the blue and black came away slowly, like bruises. Nakago's hand chased away the lie, the mask, with a detached gentleness so perfect, so unfamiliar, that Tomo hadn't noticed he'd been holding his breath.   
  
He wasn't sure when the cloth had disappeared, but Tomo realized that he was being lightly caressed with graceful, cool, wet fingertips, and he closed his eyes. The soft touch slid over his forehead, his cheeks, and finally traced the outline of his trembling lips.  
  
"An illusion... how like you, Tomo.. hiding behind the face of a villain, covering the beauty underneath..." Nakago's voice washed over him like the water, though warm where it had been cold.   
  
"N-nakago-sama, y-you... I..." The words wouldn't come. His eyes were wide and frightened, he felt his heart pounding in his chest, this beautiful, strong, perfect man was touching him in a way that no other person ever had, and he had no idea what to do! He wanted an answer, an escape, anything, but nothing came.  
  
The fingers that had washed away his mask pressed themselves against his mouth, calming his stammers, if not the sound of his own pulse in his ears. He closed his eyes again, nervous and afraid, as he felt Nakago's other hand undoing his ponytail. Wave after wave of silken silvery-black hair spilled down over his shoulders, down onto the carpet, pooling around the legs of the chair like gossamer.  
  
A light, genuine laugh rumbled in Nakago's chest, like a tiger's seductive purr. "Breathtaking," he murmured, his mouth uncomfortably close to Tomo's. "Always, you have eluded everyone, Tomo. Distancing yourself, hiding behind this costume, that makeup, all to hide something so beautiful... Why?"  
  
Tomo's voice broke as he whispered, without hesitation, "For you."   
  
"Yes..." That response seemed to satisfy him, and the mouth so near Tomo's curved into an almost-imperceptible smile. "Only for me."   
  
The shogun tilted his head just enough to kiss him, slowly and shallow, his breath warm against Tomo's mouth. Frozen in surprise and, perhaps, fear, the illusionist could only finely tremble as both of Nakago's strong, warrior's arms slid around him, pulling him up out of the chair and against his firm chest. After a moment, he began to respond, curling his fingers in the fine black silk, hesitant, but hoping.  
  
Nakago guided him to the bed, lowering him onto it, but never broke the tender kiss. His skilled hands undid the closures of the opera robes and the thin shirt underneath, parted them to expose a narrow chest that only barely contained his pounding heart. He leaned his head against Tomo's long, white neck, brushing his lips over the sensitive skin with a calculating edge, and he smiled as the actor's smooth voice resonated in a low moan.   
  
"Nakago-sama... I .. please, I want to.." Tomo's whimpers sounded weak and pathetic in his own ears, but Nakago only sat up on the bed, leaned against the wall, and let the bedrobe slide off his shoulders like water. Tomo's eyes widened again as he rose to his knees on the blankets, this time in awe instead of fear.  
  
He was a god, a gleaming, golden deity bathed in silver moonlight and the crystalline blue of his own ethereal eyes. Bare from the shoulders to his waist, the black silk barely hung from his marbled form. The sleeves gathered around his forearms, the rest left in shimmering folds around his hips and lower, a line of white, sculpted thigh visible through the fabric. He was perfect.   
  
Tomo hesitantly reached to touch this perfection, almost afraid to ruin it with his filthy, tainted touch, but Nakago showed no fear of that taint. Why should he? The man was only inches away from immortal beauty and flawlessness, so far above and beyond reality that Tomo's vile hands could never hope to stain him. The disgusting man that knelt before the immaculate god could be free to worship, to be accepted as a loyal servant, without fear of marring him.   
  
He leaned forward and kissed the line of Nakago's collarbone, reverently, head bowed, as he straddled his strong, black-silk-clad thighs. The candleflame danced against the shogun's skin and hair, washing it over with a fitting, holy sheen of gold. Tomo felt a hand gently combing through his hair, showing him that his offering was acceptable, and Tomo traced his tongue over the smooth skin in thanks. There were no sneering faces over him now, no rough hands pulling him in every direction, no one splitting him in half. Only this, a beautiful, white-marble god, tenderly stroking the hair and shoulders of his dirty little charge.   
  
Gently, lovingly, Tomo pulled the robe away from Nakago's body, leaving him bare and beautiful...   
  
_But that's all right, isn't it? Tomo thought. It doesn't matter how ruined and filthy I am..._  
  
He leaned against Nakago's chest, barest whisper of kisses brushing across his neck.  
_  
No matter what deplorable things I've done... _  
  
Strong arms enfolded him, comforting and warm, but always with that impassable barrier of aloof, flawless strength; the line between them that kept vile man and perfect god apart and safe from one another...  
  
_If I can be his..._  
  
A footstep.  
  
Tomo looked up, finding himself sitting at his table, makeup smeared but still on. No warm candlelight flickering across the room; only cold, unfeeling moonlight. No wet washcloth dripping onto the floor; only a rag in a little bowl of water. No shining, glorious deity sitting in a slithering pool of black silk.   
  
Only another footstep.  
  
He bowed his head again. Just another illusion, shattered by that sound. Even in his own dreams, Nakago was too far away for him to keep. Even if it was only for a few seconds and even if it wasn't real, Nakago was too good for him, and Soi would always be the one called to his chamber. And those sounds! Those footsteps, ever a living reminder of that fact! He covered his ears, shut his eyes, as if the sounds of those soft shoes padding across the floor weren't timed perfectly with the beating of his own heart, and he smiled bitterly.   
  
Like a proud man lead to the gallows.  
  
  



End file.
